


Exchanging Favors

by BarbariousBarbarian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Economic Heroism?, Evacuation of Ziost, Gen, No Romance, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 21:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbariousBarbarian/pseuds/BarbariousBarbarian
Summary: The Imperial Shipping Exchange keeps the freighters of Empire moving. Under the Lord Inspector's watchful eye, the system works with such stability barely anyone even notices it exists. But when a Dark Councillor demands an entire planet be evacuated against a ruthless deadline, the Exchange is the place where commands are translated into results.A tale of heroic, reckless economics.





	Exchanging Favors

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after a chapter in RainofAugust's excellent "An Open Affinity"; that author off-handedly mentions her Darth Nox ordering ships be organised for the evacuation of Ziost. This obviously resulted in a story about how the central Imperial shipping index and exchange would manage that process and its attendant risks. Obviously.

Braxtia Traveller got up from her desk at the sound of an argument. 

Frankly, she wasn’t really that interested in what the argument was about, or why it was happening; she had her own problems. Her desk overflowed with them. But as the only Sith in the building, and the appointed overlord of the Imperial Shipping Exchange. the rukus outside was technically her responsibility. Braxtia grimaced as the noise got louder. Ah well, she thought to herself. The office chairs were uncomfortable anyway. A quick walk to settle down wouldn't be the worst thing. Maybe it could be an opportunity for a new mug of caf?

She levered herself up grimly and waited for the stabs of pain to fade away. Then she resigned herself to actually walking. A couple of quick movements to clip on her lightsabers and she was off, gamely limping for the door. 

In the short time it had taken her to organise herself, several new voices had added themselves to the din. From the volume and the muffled footsteps it was closer now as well, possibly even outside her office. It definitely wasn’t going away, anyway. Braxtia couldn’t tell yet what the topic might be - her office door was solid enough to stop a blaster bolt, and it normally buffered against sound just as well. 

Screaming and cursing wasn’t necessarily an oddity at the Imperial Shipping Exchange. People argued practically everywhere inside her building, and it was a big building; they fought over charters and demurrage, laytime, futures, and terms of affreightment. These disputes were practically the lifeblood of Empire, as far as Braxtia was concerned - forthright discussions around getting the ships filled with goods, getting ships to their rightful destination, and then someone coughing over money at the end of it. It was just the building had a first floor, where the brokers and shippers had their offices, and a second floor, where the terminal operators had agents. And then there was the third floor - the third floor, where Lord Inspector Braxtia Traveller sat in her office, overlooked and unnoticed, quietly overseeing the Empire’s shipping. 

Brax paused by her little private sink to flip the caf machine. Before she could grab a mug, however, the door slid open. A passel of men and women immediately surged inside.

Bursting in on a Sith unannounced would normally be a death sentence even with a visitor’s best foot forward - and frankly these visitors were causing a scene on her carpet that was less than edifying. Her private secretary, disheveled and flushed, was shouting at a man in a Reclamation Service uniform, who was attempting to elbow him out of the way. Then there was her senior Index Compiler, was also screaming. This was a real surprise. The woman was profoundly influential; she was regularly invited to lavish illicit parties in Republic space, and she was also so profoundly boring she always declined. Another man in a Reclamation uniform - this one trim and handsome - looked one step away from physical violence. And behind them pushed yet more people, some of them Brax’s own, some of them strangers. All of them were excitedly announcing their positions at the very top of their lungs. Unfortunately, the din was so cacophonous that none of it made sense. 

Brax moved a hand cautiously away from the caf machine and dropped it casually on one of her lightsabres. She deliberately cleared her throat. 

Then she cleared it louder. 

Finally, she gave up on quiet dignity, and instead switched on her lightsaber. Sound and movement ceased instantly, except for a faint and ominous hum.

“What,” stated Braxtia clearly, “is the meaning of this?”

Her secretary pushed to the front of the throng, which was brave of him considering. 

“My Lord Inspector,” he said. “I apologise for the disturbance but this man ju..”

“We have a priority Aurek situation,” snapped the taller Reclamation man, grabbing at the secretary and shaking him slightly. “Every ship and every crewmember is to be diverted to Ziost at once for civilian evacuation. A Dark Counselor orders you to do this!” 

Braxtia narrowed her eyes.

“Impossible!” snarled the secretary, twisting out of the Reclamation’s man’s grip. His stumpy body quivered with indignation. “Impossible! We would disrupt the trade of two hundred star systems, starve the inhabitants of a doz…”

“While you people sit and do nothing, Imperial citizens die!” the Reclamation man yelled, balling his fists threateningly and looming. The secretary was not a tall man, so this looming was reasonably effective. “Those ships need to be moving! Those ships need to be...” 

One of the schedulers clearly gave up on the whole situation. He punched a fist straight into the Reclamation man’s gut; the tall stranger staggered and coughed, falling to the floor. Behind him there was a great surge as the strangers rushed to help their comrade, and Brax’s team moved to back up their man. Punches and kicks and curses began to fly freely. 

“Enough!” roared Braxtia. She seizing her pain and rage, lighting up with power. Fury boiled off her in visible waves.“Enough!” 

In Brax’s experience, a thundering, angry Sith concentrated the mind wonderfully. Every soul in the office before her cowered a little. None of this was an act for Brax - she was thoroughly angry. But her prosthetic legs ached and this seemed like an emergency, so she ignored her desire to cut someone. Instead she pointed a single metal finger at the Reclamation man lying on the floor. 

“Explain.” 

He wheezed up at her, face pale. “All of them. Everyone on Ziost. All of them, inside 18 hours.”

Braxtia’s eyes narrowed. She slowly let her fury trickle away, leaving pain and tiredness behind. “All of them what?” 

Her secretary intervened. “All of them evacuated.” He fairly quivered with outrage. “Reclamation wants every single soul off Ziost, and if possible also the animals, inside 18 hours.” 

Braxtia couldn’t help herself. Her eyebrows rose.

The tall, trim Officer who had previously been screaming at her Compiler, took the opportunity to stride forward. His eye was swelling slightly from where someone had landed a lucky blow. Now he was straightening his jacket and trying to be charming. This tended to be a problem for people who had never met Brax before - this man eyes’ kept skittering nervously off the ruin that was her face. Apart from that, he almost pulled it off. 

“My Lord… Inspector, was it?” he said smoothly, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Malik Requiz, temporary messenger for Darth Nox. The Dark Lord also speaks with the voice of the Wrath.”

“The Lord Wrath,” Braxtia said slowly, “and Darth Nox. Of course you are.” 

She waved vaguely. Unfortunately her other hand still held a humming lightsaber, so everybody flinched. Brax paused, processed this, then switched it off. “Any visitor speaking with those voices are... welcome guests. We apologise for this... misunderstanding.” 

The skeletal fingers of her metal hand stayed closed up on the thumb-switch. She afixed them with her one good eye. “Please explain more fully what is going on.” 

The tall Reclamation man was getting up now, bleeding slightly, and joined his side of the room. The Exchange personnel had separated themselves from the Reclamation men, and both were eyeing each other warily over her carpet. For his part, Requiz looked caught between wanting to press his verbal advantage and physically backpedal. “The Dark Lord Nox,” he stuttered, “orders you to advise all shippers that their vessels are commandeered, and they are to proceed at once to…”

Braxtia had heard enough. She spun and stalked towards her desk, punching a code. Instantly, a large-scale galaxy map appeared and the lights in the office dimmed. Her secretary, the scheduler, and the Compiler shoved their way through the Reclamation men to close ranks on her. The blue glow of the holograph threw mocking shadows across all three as they stared at it in silence.

Another sharp gesture and the display zoomed in on the sector containing Ziost; it was clear whatever was being displayed was the next best thing to real time. Throughout the slice of galaxy on display moved multicoloured dots, sedately drifting along wide, ordered lanes. 

“What have we got?” Braxtia said shortly, optical implant whirring.

“Not much,” replied the scheduler. He hit a button, and a handful of the dots flashed gold. “Nineteen passenger vessels immediately - five more cruise liners we could divert from the hyperlane - and five liners more put en route to relieve crowding - twelve hundred private launches to be commandeered as runabouts. Maybe a quarter of a million people?”

Braxtia grunted. “Send them their take-up notice. Current passengers to the nearest safe stardock then flank to Ziost station. Sareha; you make the calls.”

The Compiler nodded firmly, already pulling out her holocom and turning to go.

The remaining Exchange officers turned back to the display, and Requiz took the opportunity to take the Compiler’s spot at Brax’s side. Everyone in an Exchange uniform contemplated the dots and movements silently, seemingly well aware of the significance of the display. Whatever they were seeing, however, clearly wasn’t pleasing them. A young Chiss with Exchange insignias on her collar rushed into the office, holding out a document. Braxtia glanced at it quickly and tapped in an authorisation code, before thrusting it back and waving her away. At the map her aides were adding and removing arcane layers of data, looking increasingly grim.

Requiz was growing visibly impatient, but his tone was still civil. “My Lord, the Dark Lord said the Empire should requisition every ship to Ziost. I strongly suggest you obey.”

Braxtia turned to him, the red of her optical implant menancing in the half light.

“Do you know what drives the Imperial economy, Requiz?” Braxtia asked, softly, dangerously. “It is trust. Everyone trusts. They trust that ships will deliver and pick up consumer goods. They trust there will be hullspace for weapons and supplies. They trust that their food will move without interruption, feeding planets where every single crumb is imported from off-world.” 

She dragged the map out from Ziost, showing the thousands of dots, then the tens of thousands, then the hundreds of thousands. Lights flickered and played across the metal embedded in her face. Brax stood impassive. “People don’t know how it works. They only trust that it does.” 

Braxtia abruptly slashed her hand across the map, and it altered to display only one layer of dots. Red and blue icons twinkled up among the stars, drifting gently along broad shipping lanes.

“This is the tramp freighter layer,” the secretary said softly to Requiz, apparently forgetting in his concentration that they’d been literally kicking each other in the face less than five minutes before. “Hundreds of small ships - from Kabutu-class all the way to Starlight-class, with holds that could carry hundreds of people. And current SOP is that every one of these ships vents their hold directly into space.” 

Braxtia, listening with half an ear, sneered bleakly. “And why not? Atmo costs good credits. The goods are containerised anyway.”

She switched to another layer, with significantly fewer dots. “The passenger layer,” the secretary murmured. “Full atmosphere, medical facilities, trained crew…”

“And slow as a Jedi’s monologue.” Braxtia stabbed at a dot which was moving sedately along the local hyperlane. “This is the outer limit of what I’ve already diverted. The Imperial Ruler, four weeks out from Ziost at full speed. All ships three weeks distant and below have already been diverted towards the area.” 

Braxtia shuffled onto another layer and paused. The Exchange officers contemplated it in silence. 

Requiz figited. “And what layer is this?”

“The corporation layer,” replied the secretary. “The big ships. _Gage_ -class. _Superfreighter_ -class.”

“The politically well connected class.” Braxtia was focusing on one particular dot. “The class of ships which would make the biggest impact if diverted to an evacuation.” A ship flashed up on the screen - boxy and angular. Braxtia eyed it impassively. “For example, the _Calvus Moran_. Flagged on Dromund Kaas. A Calvus Corporation vehicle carrier, and the pride of the third largest Corporate fleet in the Empire.” Her skeletal hand tapped a staccato on her desktop. “The board of this particular company has been looking for a reason to re-flag their vessels on Hutta; taking their ships up from trade would be the perfect excuse. Allowing them to do so would destroy the energy security of a hundred Imperial worlds, and shred the balance of power between us and the Cartel.”

She tapped on another dot and zoomed in. “Or this. This is the _Ligiona_ , of SimMov. Fully pressurised hold spaces, docking extension for outer Orbital Station parking, could make Ziost in five hours. The Empire would probably survive SimMov’s consequent bankruptcy. But her route would take her straight through a heavy Republic battlefleet, and were it destroyed while under the council’s orders, it would cripple the Empire’s ability to finance and insure new build tonnage.”

She leaned back again with a grimace, clenching and unclenching her prosthetic hand. “These are the ships we want. Pressurised, large, swift. But the secretary is right. We cannot press them into service.”

“So you’ll do nothing then?” Requiz said sharply. Braxtia stiffened and visibly ground her teeth.

“The Exchange will do everything in its power,” Braxtia said lowly, “to protect the Empire.” 

She turned to the Scheduler, who had been standing quietly by for orders. “Warren,” she growled, in a voice like rust. “How many Futures in dry do we have currently in Imperial Galactic North optioned on the derivatives market?” 

“Roughly 14 billion credits, Lord Inspector,” he said calmly. “Half of that redeemable immediately.”

Braxtia smiled with too many teeth. “Sell it all,” she ordered, “in the next five minutes.” 

The Scheduler’s eyebrows shot up, but he was too disciplined for pauses. He nodded once and saluted sharply. “At once, my Lord Inspector.” He then turned and scurried from the office.

The secretary was by now pale. “My Lord Inspector,” he said carefully, “that much extra hullspace hitting the market at once...”

Braxtia turned back to her secretary, putting on the closest her face could approximate to mock horror. “Sturt, are you suggesting this might be the single biggest act of dumping the Exchange has ever seen?” The remaining pieces of Braxtia’s face arranged themselves into insincere concern. “But we are the Imperial Exchange! Heart of the Imperial merchant marine! And the last thing we should want to see is a massive crash in the price of dry, pressurised hullspace throughout the sector a day’s journey surrounding Ziost.” 

The secretary’s face cleared and he stared at her in wonder. Then he snapped open a tablet. The Exchange officers crowded closer to the tablet. The Reclamation men crowded there as well, away from Brax (a wise policy with strange Sith). They were obviously still a bit confused by what was going on. But the secretary put his finger under a particular price and held it still, helping the strangers see what Brax had done. That single number held steady at 4000 credits a CEU for a good three minutes before it flickered upwards, fluctuated for fifteen seconds, and then dropped like a rock. In less than a minute it had plunged below a third of what it had previously been. A short, insistent alarm sounded on the tablet when it plunged below 900. The secretary immediately slapped it off.

The secretary cleared his throat. “My Lord Inspector… the Automated Monitor reports serious volatility in the price of dry, pressurized hullspace around Imperial Galactic North. Could I suggest to my Lord Inspector that a large quantity of Imperial freight should be released onto the market in that sector to help minimise Corporation losses?”

“Sturt, what a wonderful idea.” Braxtia glanced around the room at her people. Beside them, Reclamation men stared at her in amazement. “I might even know where to find such massive quantities of dry, pressure-requiring freight. Do mention to the Corporations that it will be for a limited time only though, and a bonus for swift execution. Release an advisory, please, and auction off the tonnage on the Exchange floor.”

The secretary bowed, and left Braxtia to turn back to her map. She contemplated it steadily. One by one, the Exchange officers drifted away, each of them called to manage some part of the chaos they’d produced. The Reclamation men stood silently, uneasily. The time ticked past - an hour, then two. At two and a half, the little dots that represented the only potential escape for a million souls were now demonstably headed towards the planet Ziost.

Requiz finally stepped up beside her, and Braxtia turned her broken face towards him. They stared at each other in silence. “I have never met Darth Nox” she said musingly, “nor Lord Dragoi. But please give them my regards.” She turned back to the glowing map, and hunched over. “Give them my apologies also.” 

The Reclamation man hesitated, saluted, and left.

There would be consequences, of course. The shipping corporations would be furious; their trust in the Exchange’s impartiality - and in her - would be profoundly affected. Freight prices would probably lift permanently. Vast Imperial funds would have to be spent to manage the resultant risk, and the surplus tonnage would need bolstering with Imperial Navy freighters. Braxtia brooded on this quietly. The economic damage she had inflicted to the Empire today was incalculable, and if her superiors bothered to notice it would cost Braxtia her life. That wasn’t why she was staring at the map now though, quietly hiding her despair. No. She watched the ships move with a grimness born of helpless frustration and complete understanding.

The floatilla she’d deployed today would never be enough.


End file.
